Rainbow Beach

Late in the afternoon, I set off to explore Rainbow Beach. I had learned that the area around the docks was called the “Old Town” and comprised the docks, wharves, and storehouses, as well as the markets and most of the buildings of the original port settlement. The Old Town was a veritable warren of narrow streets and alleys. The layout confused me at first, but only until I realised that any street which led downhill would take me to the wharves.

The streets were lined with shops and stalls selling everything a person might possibly want to buy. A veritable riot of smells and colors and sounds stormed in on me as chandlers vied with bakers, vendors of spice, and curio peddlers for my attention. Cloth merchants plied their wares to me, as did woodcarvers, hat makers, jewellers, and many other craftspeople. I was often tempted but remained steadfast. I had no real need of their goods, however beautiful they might be. My destination was the famous “Women’s Market”, which took place each evening in the main market square. If at all, I thought I might find something I wanted there.

Eventually, my wanderings led me back to the market square, which was even busier than it had been when I arrived. Brightly-clad women of all ages and ethnicities were busy spreading rush mats on the ground and piling them high with baskets of goods and produce of all descriptions. Some women had erected brightly colored fabric tents and windbreaks, most of which bore banners or signs advertising the services of healers, or fortune tellers, or seamstresses. Dotted around the market square were tiny food stalls, each with women busy heating oil, chopping vegetables, stirring pots, or rolling out thin rounds of dough.

I am a lover of exotic foods, so I chose one of the stalls and, without asking what it was, pointed to something in the display. My purchase turned out to be a freshly baked chapatti, and the filling was made from chopped vegetables, light meat, and spices — saffron, coriander, and ginger, among others — with a sauce of thick joghourt and cumin. I washed it down with a bowl of steaming, spicy chai and moved on to continue my explorations refreshed.

Throngs of people had arrived at the market in the meantime, and it became increasingly difficult to weave my way through the crowd. Caught in the heaving mass of bodies, with no way out, I found myself inching along a narrow alley just off the market square. After a hundred yards or so, the alley widened and we spilled into a second, smaller, square that was also packed with stalls and booths.

The Mask Maker’s Daughter

I sat on the steps of a stone fountain to rest. A band of children played a boisterous game of catch around me, squealing and chasing each other in turn, and splashing water onto the victim, once he or she was captured. One of the boys was older and taller than the other children, he had the look of a bully about him, and he clearly called the shots. Suddenly he darted after a lanky girl of around thirteen. He caught her, and then, instead of splashing her, as the others had done, he half thrust, half threw her into the fountain.

She gasped and spluttered. “I’ll get you Billy Morris!” she shouted. “Jus’ you wait. One day yer’ll want a mask, an’ I’ll make you the most horriblist one you ever seen!”

The boy sneered. “Girls don’ make masks. Only men make masks. Yer’ll be a stooooopid dream peddler, like yer ma!”

“Me ma ain’t stoopid, and she ain’t no dream peddler, she’s a truth sayer!” Visibly irate, the girl clambered out of the water and lunged at him. She may have been small, but she was certainly plucky!

Billy Morris tumbled backward and fell but jumped up a second later, with nothing injured except his pride. He grabbed the girl and threw her to the ground. From what I could see, she landed badly.

“That’ll teach you, that will, Sarah Flower”, he jeered. Ger off ‘ome and play wiv yer dollies.” He signalled for the other children to follow him, and they ran off between the stalls. All except Sarah.

The girl got up off the ground, and I could see she was in some pain. Her dress was torn, and one knee was bleeding profusely. I wet a handkerchief in the fountain and offered it to her.

She took it and wiped her knee. “Thank you, Lady.”

She straightened up, took a few steps, and winced.

“Do you live near here, Sarah?” I asked. “Shall I help you home? I can explain to your parents that it’s not your fault your dress is torn.”

“No thanks, Lady. I’m ok.”

She hobbled another few steps and stumbled. To me, it looked as if she had sprained an ankle. The second time, I didn’t ask, I simply gave her my walking staff to help take some of the weight off her ankle and told her I was taking her to her parents.

It took only a few minutes to reach Sarah’s home.

“This is it, Lady. This is where I live.”

I helped her up the step into a shop that was filled to bursting with masks. There were masks of every description, from all corners of the world: elaborate carnival masks, tribal masks, gaudily painted demonic masks, animal masks… hundreds and hundreds of them on shelves and in glass cases, on tables and counters, and even hanging from the ceiling.

Home turned out to be a cozy room at the back of the narrow storefront. As we entered, Sarah’s father was sitting at a workbench in a corner, a mask in front of him. Her mother stood at the window, dabbing paint from a palette onto a canvas propped on an easel.

I explained my presence and the rough-and-tumble that had taken place at the fountain.

Sarah’s father sighed. “That Billy Morris is a rough ‘un, but what can you do? Can’t fight their battles for ‘em.”

I assured him that, from what I had seen, his daughter was perfectly capable of fighting her own battles, all else being equal.

In the meantime, Sarah’s mother had attended to her daughter’s injuries. “She’ll be right as rain in a day or two,” she pronounced. “Thank you for bringing her home.”

The Masks

Sarah piped up from her seat at the table, “Show her the masks, Da.”

Just a moment before Sarah spoke, I had been thinking that I should like to spend a little time looking at the masks in the shop.

The father and I walked back into the store. There we spend a delightful hour in which he pointed out various masks, explaining the origins and purpose of each one to me briefly as he did so. After some time, I realised that a though was niggling at my mind. Then it came back to me: the bully had said something about Sarah’s father being a mask MAKER, but the masks he’d shown me were all from faraway places.

Just then, Sarah hobbled into the shop. “Show her the other ones, Da.”

He seemed to hesitate. It was not the kind of hesitation that people might usually notice, and it passed in a second.

“Right, then”, he said.

Sarah’s father led the way into a small storeroom, the entrance to which lay behind the counter. The storeroom was filled from wall to ceiling with glass cases, and in the cases were masks of an entirely different kind from those in the shop.

“Me da makes these”, Sarah said. “An’ I want to be a mask maker, too, when I’m old enough.”

The strange thing about the masks in the glass cases was that, though they were clearly masks, they looked real, more like captured expressions than anything else. Each of the masks was decorated in a different way, at least, I couldn’t see two that looked alike. It was like gazing on a crowd of people at a fancy dress party. The masks had something akin to personality, as if the wearers were also present.

“You could have a mask, too, if you needed one”, Sarah said. “Ma would help you find it, and Da would make it for you.”

“I don’t think I need a mask, at the moment, Sarah. Thank you. But I’d love to learn something about them”, I replied.

“Well then, we’d best go back into the parlour”, said Sarah’s father. “Talk is always best over a cup of tea.”

Over tea and sweet biscuits, Sarah’s father, who I now knew to be called Samuel, explained to me about the masks.

“Most people think masks are for concealment, or maybe for pretending and ritual acting, but what you saw in the back room were traditional Lemurian masks. Lemurian mask makers know masks can reveal as well as obscure things about the wearer, like their hopes, intentions, dreams, and longings. If someone finds the right mask, they can do things and become the person they were meant to be to fulfill their destiny, or to perform a difficult task.”

I was intrigued. “So, how do the people for whom the masks are intended find them?”

“This is Lemuria”, he replied. “So much here is guided by fate. Lemurians know about the masks, and they know to seek out one of the mask makers. But they have to ask. That’s why the masks are stored out of sight. It wouldn’t do for someone to want a mask that wasn’t theirs. It happens, from time to time, and the outcome is rarely beneficial.”

My next question surfaced. “But… but how do seekers know when they’ve found a mask that is meant for them?”

“Oh”, he said, matter of factly, “the truth sayers help with that. Before someone can see the masks, they have to consult with a truth sayer, someone like Ayn, my wife. Ayn can see whether the required mask is in my possession, and if not, she can help find out where it might otherwise be.”

My mind raced. I wanted to know how Samuel and the other mask makers knew which masks to make, and who sought out the masks, and how the mask achieved their effect, and what happened to the masks when they were no longer required, for example, when the owner died….

“Ma can show you”, Sarah chipped in.

So that was it. Sarah was a telepath. I had suspected as much earlier on, when she asked her father to do exactly what I had been thinking. She seemed to realise she’d been found out and grinned at me. Being a child, she probably couldn’t yet resist the urge to read other people.

“Sorry,” she said. It’s just starting, you see, and it’s so much fun.

Silently, I hoped it would always remain a pleasant and useful gift for her, and that she would quickly learn to shield her mind from the barrage of confusing adult thoughts to which she would soon be exposed.

The Mirror Of Truth

Then the talk turned to me, and I told Ayn and Samuel what little there was to tell about my journey.

Presently, I decided it was time for me to leave. I got up from the chair and reached for my staff.
 
“Wait”, Ayn said. “May I tell your truth, before you leave?”

I must have looked skeptical.

“It’s not like fortune telling”, she said. “I don’t make predictions. All I do is look beneath the surface. Often I can see the nature of a thing or a purpose…. And I’ll be happy to show you the answers to your questions about the masks, too.”

Curiosity won the upper hand, and I agreed. Ayn led me into another small room and offered me a place at a table. The table top was made of what looked like smoked glass.

“It’s a mirror”, she explained. “I can see truth perfectly well without it, but it’s helpful for you, as it will show you the images I see when I search for your truth.”

We sat facing each other, both of us gazing into the mirror. After a while, I looked up and saw that Ayn’s eyes had taken on a distant look, as if she were looking far beyond the room in which we were sitting; as if the mirror was a deep, deep pool and she someone looking for stones on its bed.

Then I saw it, too. The surface of the mirror rippled and a hazy image rose to the surface. First I saw myself from a distance, walking the Holborn Hills, on my way to the Murmuring Woods. Then I watched at a series of pictures flitted across the surface of the mirror. Each showed me in a different landscape, some of which felt ancient, as if not from this lifetime, but I saw and sensed no more than that. Then I saw many masks, and I felt the knowledge of the masks pass into my wisdom. And still the images rose to the surface of the mirror. A weaver, a broken mask, a tall stone, an earth barrow, a lake, a barge, and, to my utter surprise, the face of someone I had not seen in a very long time, his eyes gazing directly into mine. This image lasted longer than the others, but all too soon it wavered like the others and broke into a thousand lights. The stream ceased, and the mirror darkened once again.

Ayn breathed deeply and stretched her limbs, like a dreamer waking from a sleep. She looked at me, and I could tell she was trying to find careful words for what she had seen.

“It is rare”, she said, “for one like you to pass this way. And you are brave to leave your world and set out on this journey, to follow where you are being led. You have no goal, but you are willing to discover one. I am surprised, for this is not your way.”

Her words fit well.

“You seek, but you are also sought. The great injustice cannot be undone, but there may be recompense. Your mask is broken, but you may find another to serve you, though it is not here in our care, and I can’t see where it lies.”

Her words made sense, though I couldn’t imagine who might be seeking me.

She spoke again. “The undertone of what I saw is emptiness. I see you, and while you may be present in places or with people, you are not tied to them or to outcomes; they seem to be of no consequence to you and your path. I am sorry, for this is a hard way to have to journey.”

I could not have spoken there and then.

We rose from our seats, and I thanked Ayn.

“May you find a journey companion soon”, she whispered.

I said my goodbyes and stepped out into the market place once more. Night had fallen, but the square still bustled with activity. I made my way down the hill to the wharves, to find the floating stage.

Enchanter’s Bag

By then I’d realised that the Enchanter’s introduction in French had been in fun, and that I was perfectly able to understand her.

Enchanter presented me with pouch. It was a gorgeous thing, made of felted wool and golden mesh, with iridescent blue and gold beads in the shape of leaves on the front. The clasp was intricate, with a pattern of fine worked metal and tiny stones atop mother of pearl.

“Go on then, open it”, she said.

I unfastened the clasp, reached into the pouch, and, one by one, extracted a number of intriguing objects: a packet of dream seeds, spectacles, a candlestick, a tiny anchor, a medallion with the imprint of the Unicorn, a handful of gold coins, and a set of wings. The last item I drew from the bag was a bead strung on a leather thong. The bead was as long as my thumb and a little thicker. It had been turned from deep blue polished stone with fine, light veins. I was fairly sure it was lapis lazuli. The surface of the bead showed detailed carvings of figures and signs in bas-relief. It was clearly old.

Enchanter gasped.

“You have an intaglio!”

I looked at her. I’d not heard the term before. She must have sensed my question.

“It’s not a bead”, she said. “It’s a seal. If you roll it on clay, the pattern and message will be revealed.”

I considered the information for a few seconds, then I had an idea.

“Come on! Let’s go down to the water.”

I carefully replaced all the objects except the stone in the pouch. Then we descended a stone stairway onto a narrow strip of sand.

“We need to find a rock pool”, I said.

We soon found a shallow pool. I knelt down and scooped handfuls of fine yellow sand onto the stone, then added water and mixed a paste. Enchanter grinned. She had grasped my idea. She groped in the sand and moments later held aloft a razor shell, which we used to smooth the surface of the mixture and form it into a rectangle. Slowly, I rolled the seal across the sand, and an image took shape, raised this time. It showed a man and a woman engaged in conversation. They were dressed in what looked like ritual regalia with elaborate headdresses. Each of the figures held half of a disc upon which something appeared to be inscribed. The woman held a simple, straight staff, with ribbons tied near the top, the man, a staff with a curved top, like a shepherd’s hook. Behind the man, and to his right, a great bird spread its wings. Both the bird’s head and the woman’s hand pointed in the direction of a mountain range in the background. On closer inspection, the borders at the top and bottom were not merely decorative, they contained lines and symbols, but the sand was too coarse to show that degree of detail.

I swept the sand back onto the beach.

Enchanter looked thoughtful. “It doesn’t look Roman or Greek”, she said, “and not Egyptian, either. If you ask me, it’s much older than that. Intaglio have been around for thousands of years, so it might be from somewhere in the Near East. They were used as seals.”

I opened my pouch and placed the seal inside.

“And now?”, I asked.

We rose from the sand and made our way back up the steps.

“You’ll need the items from the pouch on your journey”, Enchanter said. “Take care not to misplace the bag or let anyone take it from you. Keep it with you at all times.”

The excitement ebbed from me, and I realised I was tired and hungry. “Where can I find something to eat and a place to rest”, I asked Enchanter. “And, what happens next?”

“Oh, you’ll find delicious food at the market”, Enchanter replied,” or in the taverns. You name it, you’ll find it here, I promise, and more besides! And as for rest, if you’re planning to stay here a while, you’ll find good rooms in the streets around the market square.”

That sounded good.

“Aside from having some fun, there are two things next on your list”, Enchanter continued, “one is to present us with a turn as part of the pageant on the floating stage, and the other, to find out if your boat has arrived at the quay.”

The thought of a pageant intrigued me.

“What kind of “piece” should I offer?”

“Something that tells us about your work and who you are, at this moment in time, and how you feel as you head out on your journey.”

That sounded challenging, but I was never one to shirk. I decided to eat first and act later, in all senses of the word.

“Fine. Let me rest a little, and I’ll meet you at the stage this evening.”

Symbols

As I write, I’m trying to remember to check out the symbolic meanings of things that pop up in the story. Many of the symbols that crop up will have been stored in my subconscious, I’m sure, as I’ve been interested in symbols for as long as I can recall. Others, though, are unusual in that they are not symbols I’ve called upon or used before.

Squirrel:  According to what I’ve found, the squirrel is a good symbol for people who need to prepare for a special event. Squirrels teach us to gather and prepare for the ,but only what we need. It teaches us to discard both unnecessary physical objects and negative beliefs which limit our trust in love and abundance.

 Acorn: The acorn is an ancient sacred symbol in Germany, where I live (though I am not German). At general level it is seen as a symbol of good luck. At a more specific level, it is a male symbol and represents the glans of the penis and the rebirth of life. The acorn is intended to remind us that great results can be born of humble beginnings.

I can see connections between these symbols and my story (and my life). Interesting, indeed.

Passing Through the Portal

Outside, the moon rode high, and the air was keen with the scents of earth and night flowers. I looked around for the squirrel but did not see him, so I assumed he had left, his duty done.

Two paths led from the clearing: the one along which I had come, and another, which I decided to take. As I stepped out, the squirrel darted from the undergrowth bearing something in his paws. He squatted in front of me and laid the object on the ground at my feet. At first, I  assumed he had been foraging for food, but the object seemed too shiny to be a berry or a nut. I bent down and picked it up, and to my surprise, found myself holding a perfectly formed acorn made of some kind of stone. I couldn’t make out the color by moonlight, but I could feel the intricacy of each line and indentation of the cap and the nut and even the tiny stem.

The squirrel raised his tail and looked in the direction of the path I had decided to take. As before, he took a few steps, then looked back to see if I would follow, before scurrying ahead. I pocketed the stone acorn and set out along the pathway, in my guide’s wake.

We must have walked a little short of a mile when the squirrel came to a halt. He turned around to look at me, then ran around in a circle three times before disappearing up a tree. I waited several minutes to see if he would reappear, but he did not, and I realised that his task must have be complete. I continued along the path alone.

A few steps along the path, I felt a change take place. The air seemed charged and milky, as if it had grown thicker. Though I could see nothing unusual, I had the impression of silken resistance on my face, as if I were walking through a curtain of cobwebs. The sensation lasted no longer than a few seconds, but it was real enough. I suspected I had passed through a protection of some kind and was close to the portal.

Sure enough: ahead of me, just off the path, the space between the trees took on a glow like the one I’d seen on my ascent to the temple of the Muse. I saw an archway forming, lit from behind, by a dull glow. As I watched, the arch became brighter. From a haze within the arch a landscape shimmered, unfocused at first, then ever clearer. I saw hills a long way off, and buildings, and the glisten of sun on water. I heard wheels rumble on stone, a seagull’s cry, and excited voices. The air was scented with salt and tar and spices. The heat of a midmorning sun reached through the arch and warmed my night-chilled skin.

So, this was the portal. I could see that the pathway upon I stood led through the arch, from this side to that, so I simply took a deep breath and strode across the threshold…

… and found myself on a quayside, with a bustling market to my left, and ships of all descriptions to my right: barges, tall-masted schooners, dinghies, elaborate gondolas, and painted sailing ships that clearly came from lands afar. I was surprised, for I had expected to have to tramp along a trail to reach whatever destination lay next on my path. Instead, I’d arrived in a bright, busy town on what was, judging by the sun, the middle of an early summer day.

I removed my cloak and strung it through one the shoulder straps of my backpack, then I sat on a bollard to get my bearings and drink in the scene.

A woman approached me.

“Enchanteur. Enchanté.”

She had dark, flowing tresses and was clothed the same kind of bright silks and jewelled ribbons that gypsy women wore. I couldn’t tell her age, but she had the most delightful smile and grinned like an imp.

I fumbled for the few words of French I knew and returned her greeting.

“Merci, madame. Je suis enchanté aussi.”

I had no idea who she might be, or what she might want of me and assumed she had probably mistaken me for someone else.

“I see you found your portal”, she said. “Well, welcome to Rainbow Beach. Most of the others left here a few days ago, but you will meet them soon, as you follow their trail in your own time.”

My face must have shown my confusion, for she laughed.

“I’m the journey guide”, she explaind. “I’m here to make sure all travellers arrive safely and proceed in the right direction. Here, this is for you…”

Art Rites: http://artrites.wordpress.com/

Temple Of The Muse

Eventually, the full moon rose and shed its light on the path I trod. I could tell the squirrel was leading me along a gentle upward path. We seemed to walk in a spiral, and as the rounds grew tighter, the greenery that lined the way glowed, as if lit from within. Further along the path, the trees and bushes formed a natural bower, with vines woven between the branches. The light grew stronger, more vibrant. Then we passed through the arch of trees into a clearing, and I saw beams of brighteners stream from within the Temple of the Muse.

The temple had taken a form I’d not encountered before: a round chapel with a curved dome for its roof. The walls were transparent, and shimmered in shades of rose, as the light flickered and danced through them from within. Its pearl pink tiled dome glowed against the night sky, framed by the risen moon. For some reason, its simplicity brought tears to my eyes and filled me with awe. It was the most delicate, most beautiful structure I had seen in many, many years of journeying.

A shaft of light fell on three steps that led to the shrine. I climbed them, entered through an ornamental archway and then passed into the presence of a muse, from whom the light seemed to emanate, as from a brand.

After bowing low, I fished from my pouch a scrap of fine leather, in which I had bound a fairy crystal. The crystal had long ago been given to me by a journeywoman from the Isle of Erin. It was a rare and precious thing, barely half the size of my small finger, clear and unflawed, and though I was sad to part with it, my intuition told me it was the only possible offering I could bring to this place and to this being of such complete and utter beauty.

In the absence of an altar, I knelt down, spread the leather wrapping on the floor and placed the crystal upon it. Light from the muse made the stone glow, and as it did, a tiny, perfect rainbow band I had not seen it until now became visible at its core.

I felt no need to utter words, for words would have seemed helpless and insufficient in view of my surroundings. The place itself, and the atmosphere, spoke them all. So, in my heart, I merely asked for a blessing from the muse for my journey, then knelt in the chapel for some time, allowing the light and the vibrancy to wash over me.

Eventually, I rose to my feet, bowed again, gathered up my pack, and made to leave.

“Wait!”

I turned.

“You have your blessing,” she said. “And have offered me a gift of something that is of genuine worth to you; now I shall do the same.”

Every nerve in my body tingled.

“Listen carefully”, she said, “for you must carry this mousa* in your soul as you journey.”

My heart beat wildly.

She spoke:

“Seek nine and three, and one, and two –
 The other hidden, one is you.
 Pay homage as to each it fits,
 Receive, in turn, your rightful gifts.

 Go far beyond the world you see.
 Deep in the past a destiny,
 Was writ: a call to journey,
 Many worlds, to know, unravel,
 Secrets from the past, and now,
 Before a destined future bow.

 Be true unto your soul desire,
 Live through words and arts the fire,
 Only you can carry,
 To the world. No longer tarry.

 Seek one, and two, and three and nine,
 The Muses, Fates, and Mnemosyne
 Shall mend your souls, if you stay true.
 The other hidden, one is you.”

My thoughts raced. My senses bristled. Deep down, I knew the words contained a grand truth, though I did not understand them fully.

The muse spoke again. “You travel light, and my gift will add no burden to your bones. Your soul, though, is heavy enough. In time, my gift will lighten that load.”

Tears welled up and filled my eyes.

“Go now”, she said. “Say nothing. There are no words in you for what you feel in this moment.”

She was right. I bowed my head, in gratitude and assent.

“The portal is close by, and the time has come.”

One last time, I drank in the brightness of my surroundings, then I shouldered my pack and strode out into the night.
Mousa: In the work of Pindar (or Pindarus), one of the nine lyric poets of anciet Greece, to “carry a mousa” means “to sing a song”, the “song” being a gift from a muse.

Murmuring Woods

Dusk had already cast its cloak over the day, as I reached the Murmuring Woods, and I, too, passed like a shadow from twilight to darkness between the trees.

I am not afraid of the forest by night. Folklore may have spun a web of fear and superstition around the Murmuring Woods, but the truth of such tales is not as it is told to the young or believed by the dim and foolish:

Spirits inhabit
The darkness that lightens, the darkness that darkens,
The quivering tree, the murmuring wood,
The water that runs and the water that sleeps:
Spirits much stronger than we,
The breathing of the dead who are not really dead,
Of the dead who are not really gone,
Of the dead now no more in the earth…

The truth of these tales is layered into the words, buried inside them, folded between the lines. Yes, it is true that Murmuring Wood is filled with spirits, and it is true that the trees have voices, and that we may encounter strange souls beneath their canopies, but we have less to fear from them than from the quick and cunning afield by day.

The spirits of Murmuring Wood are called by a person’s heart and drawn by true purpose and intention: fear calls to the spirits of fear, darkness to the dark ones, and honesty to the Beings of Light. The knowing understand how to pass safely through any landscape: by asking permission, by walking consciously, and by heeding the spirit signs.

I rested a while beneath the boughs of an ancient oak, for I was weary. As well as that, it was time to find the words to make my intention and goal clear to the guide spirits, which meant I had to state my need clearly to myself, first. Paths through Murmuring Wood are not fixed; they reflect the determination with which a traveller seeks a destination and the strength of her vision of the place she wishes to find. Two persons with the same goal might travel very different ways to reach the place and outcome they seek, along paths of different kinds. What I knew was that I had to find a portal that would take me to a new dimension of Lemuria. Before that, though, I desired to pay my respects at the Temple of the Muses.

These thought were no sooner formulated, than a moment later, an acorn landed on the ground beside me, and a squirrel darted from the bushes to sweep it up into his paws. He squatted on his haunches, eying me, then dropped the nut and scurried several yards along the pathway, only to turn and retrace his steps. Again, he hopped along the path, stopped, looked back in my direction, as if beckoning me to follow.

I rose from my resting place and shouldered my pack again. The squirrel moved ahead, never more than a few steps in front of me, and thus we passed through the wood, changing direction many times, along paths that twisted and branched into the gathering darkness.

Poem excerpt from: Birago Diop, “Spirits”
http://www.hu.mtu.edu/~dshoos/HU3262/Negritudepoems.htm

Prelude

I heard, or rather I overheard the news, as so often, in passing. I am one of those people whom others do not readily see. It is a skill I was born with and have cultivated for its usefulness. I am now, as it is said, “a woman of a certain age”, and dress darkly, discretely. It is safer that way. Early in this life, I learned that humans are prone to fear half-borns like me, but the story of the half-borns is a tale for another day. You might say I am as invisible as any incarnate being might safely be, and that it suits everyone’s best interest that way. When I go to market, I do not visit and gossip; I watch and I listen, and sooner or later, I am sure to learn what is of consequence to me.

And so it was that I learned of the journey into Lemurian lands: a pilgrimage to the Sanctuary of Mnemosyn. The Inner Voice told me it was the call I had been awaiting. A snippet of gossip gleaned here, followed by discreet inquiries and seeded questions in other exchanges, revealed what little information was to be learned, and it was enough for me to know where travellers were to be and when.

I learned that the main party had departed on Twelfth Night, but also that the Portal would remain open until the next full moon, so that straggling pilgrims might pass through and join the expedition. It would be time enough, if I set off immediately and made good use of the moonlight.

As a seasoned journeywoman, accustomed to travelling fast and light, my preparations were quickly made. My journeying clothes are always ready. It took less than an hour to fill my backpack with the necessities — a change of clothes, my journal, healing herbs, and the odds and ends I knew I’d need underway — and ready the house for my absence. After that, all I had to do was put on my travelling shoes, strap on my pack, don cloak and staff, and seal the house with a spell of protection.

The sun was already setting I laboured up a steep pathway behind the house that led into the Holborn Hills, but, for me, the twilight would be sufficient to make a head start until the moon rose to light my pathway through the night. The Holborn Trail is narrow and demanding, but not treacherous, and I had walked it, by day and by night, many times. By moonlight, I reckoned, it would take me until morning to reach to summit. Come morning, I would traverse the hills, and descend through the summer pastures into the Wigh Valley. I could then follow the Wigh river through the wetlands and, with luck, would reach the Murmuring Woods by nightfall. So it was.

The Journey Begins

I learned of this journey only a few days ago, and am starting out later than others on this path. I know, though, that I have a good, practised pace, and that I shall be able to make my way easily, once I know the direction I must take.